They weren't far from the village. They could see a signpost from behind the bush.
"Beaune-la-Rolande," read Rachel out loud.
Their instinct told them not to go into the village. They would not find help there. The villagers knew about the camp, yet nobody had come to help, except those women, once. And besides, the village was too close to the camp. They might meet a person who would send them right back there. They turned their backs on Beaune-la-Rolande and walked away, keeping close to the tall grass by the side of the road. If only they could drink something, thought the girl. She felt faint with thirst, with hunger.
They walked for a long time, pausing and hiding when they heard an occasional car, a farmer taking his cows home. Were they going in the right direction? To Paris? She didn't know. But at least, she knew they were heading farther and farther away from the camp. She looked at her shoes. They were falling apart. Yet they had been her second best pair, the pair for special occasions, like birthdays and the cinema and visiting friends. She had bought them last year with her mother, near the Place de la Republique. It seemed so long ago. Like another life. The shoes were too small now, they pinched her toes.
In the late afternoon, they came to a forest, a long, cool stretch of green leafiness. It smelled sweet and humid. They left the road, hoping they might find wild strawberries or blueberries. After a while, they came upon an entire thicket of fruit. Rachel uttered a cry of delight. They sat down and gobbled. The girl remembered picking fruit with her father, when they had spent those lovely days by the river, such a long time ago.
Her stomach, unused to such lavishness, heaved. She retched, holding her abdomen. She brought up a mass of undigested fruit. Her mouth tasted foul. She told Rachel they had to find water. She forced herself up, and they headed deeper into the forest, a mysterious emerald world dappled with golden sunlight. She saw a roe deer canter through the bracken and held her breath with awe. She wasn't used to nature, she was a true city child.
They came to a small, clear pond farther into the forest. It was cool and fresh to their touch. The girl drank for a long time, rinsed out her mouth, washed away the blueberry stains, then glided her legs into the still water. She had not gone swimming since that river escapade, and didn't dare enter the pond completely. Rachel knew, and told her to come in, she'd hold her. The girl slipped in, grasping Rachel's shoulders. Rachel held her under her stomach and her chin, the way her father used to. The water felt wonderful to her skin, a soothing, velvety caress. She wet her shaved head, where the hair had started to grow back, a golden fuzz, rough like the stubble on her father's chin.
All of a sudden, the girl felt drained. She wanted to lie down on the soft green moss and sleep. Only for a little while. Only for a quick rest. Rachel agreed. They could have a short rest. It was safe here.
They cuddled close to each other, reveling in the smell of fresh moss, so different from the stinking straw of the barracks.
The girl fell asleep quickly. It was a deep and untroubled sleep, the kind she hadn't had for a long time.
I
T WAS OUR USUAL table. The one in the corner, on the right, as you came in, past the old-fashioned bistro zinc bar and its tinted mirrors. The red velour banquette formed an L. I sat down and watched the waiters bustling about in their long, white aprons. One of them brought me a Kir royal. Busy night. Bertrand had taken me here on our first date, years ago. It had not changed since. The same low ceiling, ivory walls, pale globe lights, starched tablecloths. The same hearty food from Correze and Gascogne, Bertrand's favorite. When I met him, he used to live on the nearby rue Malar, in a quaint rooftop apartment that was to me unbearable during summer. As an American raised on permanent air-conditioning, I had wondered how he put up with it. At that point, I still lived on rue Berthe with the boys, and my dark, cool little room seemed like heaven during the stuffy Parisian summers. Bertrand and his sisters had been raised in this area of Paris, the genteel and aristocratic seventh arrondissement, where his parents had lived for years on the long, curving rue de l'Universite, and where the family antique shop flourished on the rue du Bac.
Our usual table. That's where we had been sitting when Bertrand had asked me to marry him. That's where I'd told him I was pregnant with Zoe. That's where I told him I had found out about Amelie.
Amelie.
Not tonight. Not now. Amelie was over. Was she, though? Was she really? I had to admit I was not sure. But for now, I did not want to know. I did not want to see. There was going to be a new baby. Amelie could not fight against that. I smiled, a little bitterly. Closing my eyes. Wasn't that the typical French attitude, "closing your eyes" on your husband's wanderings? Was I capable of that? I wondered.
I had put up such a fight when I had first discovered he was being unfaithful ten years ago. We had been sitting right here, I mused. And I had decided to tell him then and there. He had not denied anything. He had remained calm, cool, had listened to me with his fingers crossed under his chin. Credit card slips. Hotel de la Perle, rue des Canettes. Hotel Lenox, rue Delambre. Le Relais Christine, rue Christine. One hotel receipt after the other.
He had not been particularly careful. Neither about the receipts, nor about her perfume, which would cling to him, his clothes, his hair, the passenger seat belt in his Audi station wagon and which was the first clue, the first sign, I recalled. L'Heure Bleue. The heaviest, most powerful, cloying scent by Guerlain. It wasn't difficult finding out who she was. In fact I already knew her. He had introduced her to me right after our marriage.
Divorced. Three teenage children. Fortyish, with silvery brown hair. The image of Parisian perfection. Small, slender, perfectly dressed. The right handbag and the right shoes. An excellent job. A spacious apartment overlooking the Trocadero. A magnificent, old French name that sounded like a famous wine. A signet ring on her left hand.
Amelie. Bertrand's old girlfriend from the Lycee Victor Duruy, from all those years ago. The one he had never stopped seeing. The one he had never stopped fucking, despite marriages, children, and the years going by. "We are friends now," he had promised. "Just friends. Good friends."
After the meal, in the car, I had transformed myself into a lioness, fangs bared, claws drawn. He had been flattered, I suppose. He had promised, he had sworn. There was me, and only me. She was not important, she was just a passade, a passing thing. And for a long while, I had believed him.
And, recently, I had begun to wonder. Odd, flitting doubts. Nothing concrete, just doubts. Did I still believe him?
"You're crazy to believe him," said Herve, said Christophe. "Maybe you should ask him outright," said Isabelle. "You're out of your mind to believe him," said Charla, said my mother, said Holly, Susannah, Jan.
No Amelie tonight, I decided firmly. Just Bertrand and me, and the wonderful news. I nursed my drink. The waiters smiled at me. I felt good. I felt strong. To hell with Amelie. Bertrand was my husband. I was going to have his baby.
The restaurant was full. I looked around at the busy tables. An old couple eating side by side, one glass of wine each, studiously bent over their meal. A group of young women in their thirties, collapsing with helpless giggles as a stern woman dining alone nearby looked on and frowned. Businessmen in their gray suits, lighting up cigars. American tourists, trying to decipher the menu. A family and their teenage children. The noise level was high. The smoke level, too. But it didn't bother me. I was used to it.
Bertrand would be late, as usual. It didn't matter. I had had time to change, to have my hair done. I wore my chocolate brown slacks, the ones I knew he liked, and a simple clinging fauve top. Pearl earrings from Agatha and my Hermes wristwatch. I glanced in the mirror on my left. My eyes seemed wider and bluer than usual, my skin glowed. Pretty damn good for a middle-aged pregnant female, I thought. And the way the waiters beamed at me made me think they thought so as well.
I took my agenda from my bag. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I had to call my gynecologist. Appointments needed to be made
, fast. I probably had to go through tests. An amniocentesis, no doubt. No longer was I a "young" mother. Zoe's birth seemed so far away.
All of sudden, panic hit me. Was I going to be able to go through all this, eleven years later? The pregnancy, the birth, the sleepless nights, the bottles, the crying, the diapers? Well, of course I was, I scoffed. I had been longing for this for the past decade. Of course I was ready. And so was Bertrand.
But as I sat waiting for him, anxiety grew. I tried to ignore it. I opened my notebook and read the recent Vel' d'Hiv' notes I'd taken earlier on. Soon, I was lost in my work. I no longer heard the hubbub of the restaurant around me, people laughing, waiters moving swiftly through the tables, chair legs scraping the floor.
I looked up to see my husband sitting in front of me, observing me.
"Hey, how long have you been there?" I asked.
He smiled. He covered my hand with his.
"Long enough. You look beautiful."
He was wearing his dark blue corduroy jacket and a crisp, white shirt.
"You look beautiful," I said.
I nearly blurted it out, right then. But no, this was too soon. Too fast. I held back with difficulty. The waiter brought a Kir royal for Bertrand.
"Well?" he said. "Why are we here, amour? Something special? A surprise?"
"Yes," I said, raising my glass. "A very special surprise. Drink up! Here's to the surprise."
Our glasses clicked.
"Am I supposed to guess what it is?" he asked.
I felt impish, like a little girl.
"You'll never guess! Never."
He laughed, amused.
"You look like Zoe! Does she know what the special surprise is?"
I shook my head, feeling more and more excited.
"Nope. No one knows. No one except . . . me."
I reached out and took one of his hands. Smooth, tanned skin.
"Bertrand--," I said.
The waiter hovered above us. We decided to order. It was done in a minute, confit de canard for me and cassoulet for Bertrand. Asparagus for starters.
I watched the waiter's back retreat toward the kitchens, then I said it. Very fast.
"I'm going to have a baby."
I scrutinized his face. I waited for the mouth to tilt upward, the eyes to open wide with delight. But each muscle of his face remained motionless, like a mask. His eyes flickered back at me.
"A baby?" he echoed.
I pressed his hand.
"Isn't it wonderful? Bertrand, isn't it wonderful?"
He said nothing. I couldn't understand.
"How pregnant are you?" he asked, finally.
"I just found out," I murmured, worried by his stoniness.
He rubbed his eyes, something he always did when he was tired, or upset. He said nothing, I didn't either.
The silence stretched out between us like mist. I could almost feel it with my fingers.
The waiter came to bring the first course. Neither of us touched our asparagus.
"What's wrong?" I said, unable to bear it any longer.
He sighed, shook his head, rubbed his eyes again.
"I thought you'd be happy, thrilled," I continued, tears welling.
He rested his chin on his hand, looked at me.
"Julia, I had given up."
"But so had I! Completely given up."
His eyes were grave. I did not like the finality in them.
"What do you mean," I said, "just because you had given up, then you can't . . . ?"
"Julia. I'm going to be fifty in less than three years."
"So what?" I said, cheeks burning.
"I don't want to be an old father," he said quietly.
"Oh, for God's sake," I said.
Silence.
"We can't keep this baby, Julia," he said, gently. "We have another life now. Zoe will soon be a teenager. You are forty-five. Our life is not the same. A baby would not fit into our life."
The tears came now, splashing down my face, into my food.
"Are you trying to tell me," I choked, "are you trying to tell me that I have to get an abortion?"
The family at the next table stared overtly. I did not give a damn.
As usual, in times of crisis, I had reverted back to my maternal tongue. No French was possible at a moment like this.
"An abortion, after three miscarriages?" I said, shaking.
His face was sad. Tender and sad. I wanted to slap it, to kick it.
But I could not. I could only cry into my napkin. He stroked my hair, murmured over and over again that he loved me.
I shut his voice out.
W
HEN THE CHILDREN AWOKE, the night had fallen. The forest was no longer the peaceful, leafy place they had wandered through that afternoon. It was large, stark, full of strange noises. Slowly, they made their way through the bracken, hand in hand, pausing at every sound. It seemed to them the night grew blacker and blacker. Deeper and deeper. They walked on. The girl thought she was going to drop with exhaustion. But Rachel's warm hand encouraged her.
They at last came to a wide path weaving across flat meadows. The forest loomed away. They looked up at a somber, moonless sky.
"Look," said Rachel, pointing ahead of her. "A car."
They saw headlights shine through the night. Headlights that were darkened with black paint, only letting a strip of light through. They heard the noisy engine approaching.
"What shall we do?" said Rachel. "Shall we stop it?"
The girl saw another pair of overshadowed headlights, then another. It was a long line of cars coming closer.
"Get down," she whispered, pulling at Rachel's skirt. "Quick!"
There were no bushes to hide behind. She lay flat out on her stomach, her chin in the dirt.
"Why? What are you doing?" asked Rachel.
Then she, too, understood.
Soldiers. German soldiers. Patrolling in the night.
Rachel scrambled down next to the girl.
The cars drew near, powerful engines rumbling. The girls could make out the shiny, round helmets of the men in the muted light of the headlights. They are going to see us, thought the girl. We cannot hide. There is no place to hide, they are going to see us.
The first jeep rolled by, followed by the others. Thick, white dust blew into the girls' eyes. They tried not to cough, not to move. The girl lay face down in the dirt, her hands over her ears. The line of cars seemed endless. Would the men see their dark shapes by the side of the dirt road? She braced herself for the shouts, the cars stopping, doors slamming, fast footsteps and rough hands on their shoulders.
But the last cars went by, droning in the night. Silence returned. They looked up. The dirt road was empty, save for clouds of billowing white dust. They waited a moment, then crept down the path, going in the opposite direction. A light shimmered through trees. A white beckoning light. They drew nearer, keeping to the sides of the road. They opened a gate, walked stealthily up to a house. It looked like a farm, thought the girl. Through the open window, they saw a woman reading by the fireplace, a man smoking a pipe. A rich smell of food wafted by their nostrils.
Without hesitating, Rachel knocked on the door. A cotton curtain was pulled back. The woman who looked at them through the glass pane had a long, bony face. She stared at the girls, pulled the curtain back again. She did not open the door. Rachel knocked again.
"Please, Madame, we would like some food, some water."
The curtain did not move. The girls went to stand in front of the open window. The man with the pipe got up from his chair.
"Go away," he said, his voice low and threatening. "Get away from here."
Behind him, the bony-faced woman looked on, silent.
"Please, some water," said the girl.
The window was slammed shut.
The girl felt like crying. How could these farmers be so cruel? There was bread on the table, she had seen it. There was a pitcher of water, too. Rachel dragged her on. They we
nt back to the winding dirt road. There were more farm houses. Each time, the same thing happened. They were sent away. Each time, they fled.
It was late now. They were tired, hungry, they could hardly walk. They came to a large, old house, a little off the dirt road, lit by a high lamppost, shining down on them. Its facade was covered with ivy. They didn't dare knock. In front of the house, they noticed a large empty dog shed. They crept inside. It was clean and warm. It had a comforting, dog-like smell. There was a bowl of water and an old bone. They lapped up the water, one after the other. The girl was frightened the dog might come back and bite them. She whispered this to Rachel. But Rachel had already fallen asleep, curled up like a little animal. The girl looked down at her exhausted face, the thin cheeks, the hollow eye sockets. Rachel looked like an old woman.
The girl dozed fitfully, leaning against Rachel. She had a strange and horrible dream. She dreamed of her brother, dead in the closet. She dreamed of her parents being hit by the police. She moaned in her sleep.
Furious barks startled her awake. She nudged Rachel, hard. They heard a man's voice, steps coming closer. The gravel crunched. It was too late to slip out. They could only hold on to each other in despair. Now we are dead, thought the girl. Now we are going to be killed.
The dog was held back by its master. She felt a hand grope inside, grasp her arm, Rachel's arm. They slithered out.
The man was small, wizened, with a bald head and a silver mustache.
"Now what do we have here?" he murmured, peering at them in the glare of the lamppost.
The girl felt Rachel stiffen, guessed she was going to take off, fast, like a rabbit.
"Are you lost?" asked the old man. His voice seemed concerned.
The children were startled. They had expected threats, blows, anything but kindness.